“I wish you would tell me about his return, my dear; he seemed so unfit to travel when your poor father came to the hills and took him away by dak.  It seemed so impossible he could bear the journey; he could not stand or help himself at all, and had constant returns of fever; but they said the long sea voyage was the only chance, and that in India he could not get vigour enough to begin to recover.  I was very unhappy about him,” said Fanny, innocently, whilst Rachel felt very vigilant, wondering if Fanny were the cause of the change his sister spoke of.

“Yes, the voyage did him good, but the tidings of papa’s death came two months before him, and Uncle George’s eyes were in such a state that he had to be kept in the dark, so that no one could go and meet the poor dear boy at Southampton but Mr. Lifford, and the shock of the news he heard brought the fever back, and it went on intermitting for weeks and weeks.  We had him at Littleworthy at first, thinking he could be better nursed and more cheerful there, but there was no keeping the house quiet enough.”

“Croquet!” said Rachel.

“Everything!” returned Bessie.  “Four courtships in more or less progress, besides a few flirtations, and a house where all the neighbours were running in and out in a sociable way.  Our loss was not as recent there as it was to him, and they were only nieces, so we could not have interfered with them; besides, my aunt was afraid he would be dull, and wanted to make the most of her conquering hero, and everybody came and complimented him, and catechised him whether he believed in the Indian mutilations, when, poor fellow, he had seen horrors enough never to bear to think of them, except when the fever brought them all over again.  I am sure there was excuse enough for his being a little irritable.”

“My dear,” exclaimed Fanny, quite hurt, “he was patience itself while he was with us.”

“That’s the difference between illness and recovery, dear Lady Temple!  I don’t blame him.  Any one might be irritable with fresh undetected splinters of bone always working themselves out, all down one side; and doubts which were worse, the fingers on, or the fingers off, and no escape from folly or politeness, for he could not even use a crutch.  Oh, no, I don’t blame him; I quite excuse the general dislike he took to everything at poor dear Littleworthy.  He viewed it all like that child in Mrs. Browning’s poem, ’seeing through tears the jugglers leap,’ and we have partaken of the juggler aspect to him ever since!”

“I don’t think he could ever be very irritable,” said Fanny, taking the accusation much to heart.